Flesh and Blood (DS Vicky Dodds Scottish Crime Thrillers Book 2)

by Ed James

  Vicky glanced at Karen and caught her frown. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Kier texted us.’ She got to her feet, then drunkenly tumbled into the quarterback’s lap. ‘Sorry!’ She pushed herself up to standing, and rested against the pillar, looking at them with pissed eyes. ‘What do you want?’

  Vicky showed her phone. ‘Recognise this woman?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Vicky felt a surge of disappointment in her guts. ‘You worked at the party last night, right?’

  ‘I did.’ She coughed like she was going to be sick. ‘Stuck-up place, full of wankers.’

  ‘Someone told us you recognised her.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Sayrah Douglas?’

  ‘Who?’ Clicking her fingers like it could help her remember, but it meant she wasn’t propped up, then a final sharp click. ‘That new girl, shagging that hot sommelier. Right. Ken who you mean now.’

  Vicky took her arm and steadied her. ‘Did she work for Abbey Catering?’

  ‘No. This lassie, she’s a hoor.’

  ‘A prostitute.’

  ‘What I said.’ She burped, but didn’t follow it up with any second hand alcohol, at least not yet. ‘I’ve seen her on the arms of a lot of men at events. People who pay for the fantasy of a beautiful woman like me giving them the time of day.’

  ‘You see her often?’

  ‘Two or three times, but not for at least a couple of years until last night.’

  ‘She with anyone?’

  ‘Some bloke. Don’t know him. She had an engagement ring on, though. Maybe she’s not on the game any more.’

  ‘You speak to her?’

  ‘Once, in the ladies. She asked me for a tampon. I gave her one. That’s it.’

  ‘And you don’t know her name?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Okay, thanks for your time.’ Vicky took her phone back and bumped through the crowd. She gave the barman a thumbs up as she passed through the entrance.

  Best way to think of him. The barman. Don’t humanise him with a name.

  Down Kinloch Street, the drunk from earlier was sitting on a wall, leaning back and singing, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘Who’s that lying over there?’

  Vicky’s phone throbbed. She saw a missed call from Forrester, alongside a text — “Get back to the crime scene.”

  VICKY POWERED ACROSS THE GRASS, arms folded, scanning the crowd for Forrester.

  Karen caught up with her. ‘Vicky, was that an ex or something?’

  Vicky took one look at her and saw that she didn’t have much of a choice, so she stopped and let out her breath. ‘Craig Norrie. My first boyfriend, back at high school. Total dickhead.’

  ‘Riiiight.’ Karen was laughing through her long exhalation. ‘What the hell did you see in him?’

  ‘My taste in boys was as bad as my taste in men.’

  ‘Your love—’

  ‘Doddsy!’ Forrester was charging towards them. Hard to miss his long arms and legs, even in a crime scene suit. He had tugged his mask aside and let his white hair out, long and impeccably styled, if you happened to live in the mid-eighties. His face was lobster pink and looked like he’d been held headfirst in a pan of boiling water for a few minutes.

  Karen frowned at him. ‘You okay, sir?’

  ‘No, I’m bloody not.’ Forrester touched his face and grimaced. ‘Hurts like buggery.’

  ‘How do you know what buggery hurts like?’

  Forrester scowled at her. ‘Sure you haven’t got somewhere to be?’

  ‘Right, sir.’ Karen took the Subaru’s keys from out of Vicky’s hands. ‘I’ll see if anyone at the hotel knows anything about that prostitute.’ She scuttled off towards the car park.

  Vicky fixed Forrester with a hard stare. ‘I was looking for you earlier.’

  ‘Right, well, I was at the golf. Followed Casey and Stenson first thing, then I was going to follow Noren and Simpson because nobody’s getting near Tiger and Molinari, but then I got this call, didn’t I, and I tell you, trying to get away from the tenth hole when the crowd following Tiger bloody Woods is coming towards you… Waste of money and the lad didn’t exactly have fun.’ Forrester patted his head. ‘You got any suntan lotion?’

  ‘You look like you’re way past that.’

  ‘Lost my hat, didn’t I?’

  ‘I’ve got some stuff in the car. It might help.’

  But Forrester didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get any. ‘So, you think this lassie was on the game?’

  ‘Not in those terms, no. One of the caterers thinks our victim might have been an escort.’

  ‘Might have been?’ Forrester snorted. ‘Okay, so I take it—’

  ‘Jenny’s running her prints now. We’ll see if she’s been on our radar before.’

  ‘Well, good effort.’ Forrester’s smile looked like it hurt, but he was still nowhere near the worst of his sunburn. ‘Mac’s up at the hotel. Sounds like he’s getting hee haw from them.’

  ‘If there’s anyone who knows about high-class escorts, it’s him.’

  ‘You’ve really got it in for that boy, haven’t you?’ Forrester smirked at her. ‘I know what you think you’re getting at, but he was seconded to the Met’s Trafficking and Prostitution Unit for six months a few years back.’

  ‘Never knew that.’

  ‘No, he’s got hidden depths. Anything to suggest that the victim was working at this event last night?’

  ‘Karen’s digging into that too.’

  ‘Fine. What’s your take on the boy running the place? Lamont, is it?’

  ‘He’s an annoying dick.’

  ‘Great, another one. Thanks for the insight.’

  Vicky shrugged it off. ‘Look, we’ve got an unknown victim. We need to ID her, then we’ll have stuff to work on.’

  ‘Speaking of which, what’s going on with Jenny Morgan?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, it’s just… I don’t know. Look, she’s a mate of yours, but she’s being a right arsehole to me.’

  ‘I’ll speak to her, then. Any idea where she is?’

  Forrester pointed down to the crime scene, still dotted with blue-suited officers working away. At least they’d erected a tent over the bunker. On the far side, the sun caught a concrete path leading down to the beach, halfway between them and the lighthouse. ‘She was going to check out the launch for Lamont’s yacht.’ He chuckled. ‘But it’s more of a dinghy. Not the first rich man to overstate the size of his equipment.’

  THE LAUNCH LOOKED ALMOST white in the blinding glare. No sign of Jenny Morgan or of anyone on her team.

  Forrester was lurking a few metres away, talking into his phone. Sounded like he was on with DCI Raven, his boss. The fact that he wouldn’t make eye contact with Vicky clinched it for her. And when Raven got his claws in, it was usually only a matter of time before Forrester was turned up to eleven and making Vicky’s life a misery.

  Vicky hopped up onto the top of the launch and scanned around.

  A speedboat was moored at the jetty and Lamont’s boat sat out in the bay. As little as Vicky knew about boats, it was pretty impressive. Two storeys tall and seemed plenty big enough, at least to get all the way to Greece in one go. Assuming you could get to Greece from Scotland. But it looked all locked up. And empty.

  Whether anyone had been there last night was another matter. Maybe Lamont had been entertaining on board? Maybe he’d hired their mysterious escort?

  Wait, what was that? At the far end of the launch, just by the speedboat was a dark mark.

  Vicky walked off towards it. Not just one, but a few of them, dots connected to wider triangles. Christ, it was a footprint, red and bloody, just by the waterline. And the victim wore heels; they’d make that pattern.

  Pretty much at high tide just now, so anything else must’ve been washed away.

  But there were dots of blood either side, likely from their victim. And the angle… It was pointing towards the woods they ha
d to pass through to get here from the bunker.

  Did the victim run away from something?

  Forrester was facing away from Vicky, ignoring anything but his phone call.

  Vicky got out her phone and called Jenny Morgan.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘What have I done now?’

  ‘Have your guys been over the launch?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Where the speedboat is.’

  ‘Right, not yet. Why?’

  ‘I’ve got a bloody footprint here.’ Vicky stared at it. The waves were in danger of washing it away. But she could trace the line of travel, and spotted where the victim might’ve fled from. ‘Have you got anyone at the lighthouse?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Hurry, okay?’ She killed the call and waved at a nearby uniform as he turned back around. ‘Pot Noodle! Come here.’

  The big lump trudged towards her, his swinging arms almost touching the scrub at the edge of the beach. ‘What’s up, Doddsy?’

  ‘Stay with this footprint.’

  ‘Rightio.’ He hopped down onto the sand and lumbered towards her.

  Vicky sprinted off in the direction of the lighthouse, her shoes slapping off the damp sand, and made her way to the rocks looming out of the beach. At high tide, the concrete path was inundated. She splashed across towards the bedrock the lighthouse rested on. The lighthouse blocked out the sun, but the doors were hanging open. And bloody footprints led out of the door, the same pattern as on the launch, coming from upstairs.

  She got out her mobile and called Jenny. ‘Hey, need you to get someone out by the lighthouse. Got a trail of—’

  Something smashed, sounded like it came from inside. Sounded like glass, maybe.

  ‘Just get here.’ Vicky pocketed her phone. Maybe this wasn’t a crime scene to be investigated, but an active attack?

  She didn’t have a choice, did she?

  Vicky climbed the steps, covered in moss and clearly old. The place was dark and cold, and was humming with electricity. The blood trail led her up to the top. Something white glowed in the half darkness of the stairwell. An empty bottle. Bleach judging by the smell. And five litres judging by the label.

  Another doorway lay beyond, the humming louder now. Must be where the light shone from. A tall window looked back towards East Haven and Carnoustie behind. The stink of bleach was even worse.

  A bottle of champagne lay on the sill, with two smashed flutes on the floor next to it.

  No doubt the sound that had lured her up here. No sign of anybody causing it, though, just a gentle breeze coming in through the window. Some seabirds sat on the ledge. A more likely explanation.

  Vicky stepped in onto rough floorboards. The room was wide and tall, half of it blocked out by machinery and the long bell of the light. She rounded it slowly.

  A man lay on the floor, naked except for a pair of jockey shorts. Relaxed muscle and slim, but his face made him seem mid-forties. A knife was plunged into his heart and he stared up at her with dead eyes, his eyelids missing.

  6

  Vicky held her phone close to her skull, fighting against her teeth chattering. ‘Jenny, I don’t care. Just send them over now. I need to lock this place down.’ She killed the call and stood there, facing towards the doorway and the steps back down.

  Her whole body was shaking from the shock of seeing yet another murder victim. She’d been a cop not far off fifteen years and she’d lost track of the number of times she’d discovered a corpse.

  She stared at the victim again. The air escaped her lungs like she’d been punched.

  This was something else entirely. Brutal, aggressive. And entirely different from a stabbing outside a pub or an escalated domestic.

  A man in his forties, older than her, but not too much. Silver hair, but he looked fit and healthy. No wedding ring. And mostly naked, just a pair of hip-hop star jockey shorts hiding his modesty, the rest of his clothes piled up in the corner. He looked about the same age as Rob. Christ.

  Footsteps came from the stairwell, the echoes shortening with each one. ‘Doddsy?’ Forrester appeared in the doorway, eyes wide, his sunburn seeming to glow in the low light. ‘You okay?’

  Vicky felt a shiver crawl up her arms. She unpicked her path back to the doorway. ‘I just… I just found him.’

  Forrester stood there, breathing slowly and squinting in the light as he examined the body from a distance. His eyes grew wider and the blood drained from his face. ‘Oh shite.’

  ‘What is it?’

  He swallowed hard.

  More footsteps came from the stairwell.

  Vicky pulled Forrester out of the way. ‘David, what’s up?’

  Forrester waved a hand over at the corpse. ‘The eyelids.’ His own flickered. He pushed away, skittering down the staircase outside the room.

  Vicky made to move but Jenny Morgan appeared in the doorway, flanked by Arbuthnott, crime scene suits hanging over casual clothes, like they were going for a boozy brunch and not on duty at a crime scene.

  ‘Oh here we go again.’ Jenny stepped away.

  Arbuthnott finished zipping up her suit, secured her mask and goggles, then made her way carefully across the floorboards, retracing Vicky’s steps. She knelt alongside the victim and started probing the corpse with her blue-gloved fingers.

  Vicky looked over at her. ‘You just happened to be here?’

  Arbuthnott continued working away at the body, pressing and prodding. Her medical bag tipped over next to her. ‘We’re taking the other victim up to Dundee for the autopsy. I wanted to check a few things out personally while it was still in situ.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Vicky set off down the stairs, away from another murder victim, and out into the warm air. Two SOCOs were approaching, suited and booted. Vicky stepped away out of their path and spotted Forrester.

  He was sitting on the side of the concrete bridge, kneading his forehead.

  Vicky had no idea what was going on. She’d never seen him like this, it was like Bella in the middle of one of her tantrums. Still, she had more options than to just let it play out. She squatted next to him. ‘Are you okay?’

  He locked eyes with her. The wildness of his pupils, his stray hair and the sunburn made him look like he’d finally lost it. ‘I’m hoping this is a suicide pact.’

  ‘You don’t run away from a suicide pact.’

  ‘Sometimes you do. Watching someone die in front of you, you might panic and decide it’s not for you and—’

  ‘David, what the fuck is going on—’

  ‘It’s got to be a suicide. Got to be.’

  ‘You don’t cut your eyelids off when you kill yourself.’ Vicky grabbed his shoulders and shook him gently. ‘Look, whatever’s going on here, it’ll help if you tell me what’s happening inside your skull.’

  His jaw kept pulsing. ‘If that girl was on the game, maybe she took the boy up here for a bit of action.’

  Footsteps clattered from the lighthouse. Jenny, frowning at Vicky. ‘Has he stopped taking his meds or something?’

  ‘No idea.’ Vicky tilted her head, trying to get him to focus on her. ‘Earth to Forrester. Earth to Forrester.’

  He shook her free, his wild attention swerving over to Jenny. ‘The female victim. Was she attacked up there?’

  ‘I don’t know, David. I’ll need to check.’

  ‘But her footsteps led from inside the lighthouse, right?’

  ‘That’s how Vicky found her, yes. But I still need to check.’

  Forrester sighed. ‘So someone stabbed her in the throat in there, but she survived and ran off, only to die in that bunker.’ His nostrils flared. ‘Did her killer follow her?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Jenny was tapping away at her smartphone. ‘The tide swept away most of the bloody footsteps. There are still some on the steps here.’

  Forrester stared up at the lighthouse again, shaking his head.

  Vicky
led him away from the pool of sick at his feet, catching her nostrils worse than the rancid bleach upstairs. ‘David, I need you to talk to me, okay?’

  Footsteps descending towards them. Arbuthnott, tearing off her gloves. ‘Well.’

  Forrester tried to get past Vicky but she blocked him off. ‘Tell me it was suicide.’

  ‘No, this is murder.’ She stepped over the walkway to them, easing the crime scene suit off. ‘Okay, the female victim died of blood loss relating to a knife wound to the throat.’

  Forrester nodded to her. ‘The woman didn’t die of the same means, did she? This boy was stabbed but she bled out, right?’

  ‘You’re several steps ahead of me.’ Arbuthnott looked over to them. ‘Well, it initially appears to be the case, yes, but…’

  Vicky grabbed his arm and pulled him back. ‘What’s going on here?’

  But Forrester only had eyes for Arbuthnott, staring at her like a gambler whose desperate last tenner on a five hundred to one bet hadn’t come in like he needed it to. ‘Same killer?’

  ‘Way too early to tell.’ Arbuthnott looked down at them. ‘But I’d say that they’ve both died from knife wounds. I’ll check whether it’s the same weapon or not. I’ll need the knife itself to be absolutely sure. The eyelids, though…’

  Forrester stared at the wall like he was going to start kicking and not stop until one of them was a pile of rubble.

  Arbuthnott got out a tablet showing a photo of the female victim and waved a hand across the face. ‘Her eyelid was partly cut too. I’m assuming that means whoever did this was interrupted when he attacked her, and she got away with a wound which later proved to be fatal.’

  Forrester stared into the middle distance, shaking his head.

  ‘Come on, sir.’ Vicky eased him away, letting Arbuthnott go with a polite nod and a smile. She kept her grip on Forrester’s arm, only releasing it when they were on the sand. ‘David, what the hell is going on?’

  ‘I recognise the MO.’ Forrester blew air up his face. ‘This is the exact same as an old case I worked in the nineties.’

  ‘The lighthouse?’